Drink Your Tea
by milkshakebubblebath
Summary: "Now," he says, crouching down to my level, "we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Just to warn you, the hard way – although being a lot more fun for me – will be a lot more painful for you, and we wouldn't want that." *New chapter up!* 28.09.12
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: First Sherlock fic. I promised myself no more fic-writing during exams but WHOOPS LOOK WHAT ACCIDENTALLY HAPPENED. Review please!**

**P.S. A ****HUGE ****thank you to my new beta, ****Kaelir of Lorien****, who **_**really**_** helped me with Moriarty – he's hard to put together sometimes!**

**Chapter One**

My name's Rosie. Rosie Jones. I help run the student magazine at St George's College. Well, when I say "help", I mean, I do. I'm the Editor in Chief, as well as chief-contributor. I guess that's 'cos the student magazine isn't that big a group. Just me and one or two others.

Our readership isn't that big, either. But I don't mind, because that means I can publish articles on my favourite topic: Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective: the world's one and only, according to some articles I've read. I have to admit, _I've _never heard of one before. Ever since my friend convinced me to read Dr. John Watson's blog, I haven't been able to tear myself away. He's amazing! The way he can get your whole life story from just a few glances; the way he spends his time righting wrongs, solving crimes where the police force fails… it takes a special kind of man to remain that dedicated to that sort of task. But then, he is special, isn't he?

Oh. I was forgetting. The fall. Sherlock's fall.

Even after all these months I still have a tendency to talk about Sherlock in the present tense. I forget that he's d – gone. He's my hero. Sorry, _was_ my hero.

But I'll bet you someone was behind this. Because this isn't something Sherlock would do, I just know it. I have several theories; my mum only laughs them off when I tell her. "Rosie, dear, just let it go, will you? The news reported it: he was a fraud who committed suicide. Now leave it be, he's not coming back."

She thinks I need to find a new hobby. "You're eighteen now, why don't you find something girls your age are interested in?" I think about the girls in my year: tops too low and skirts too high, talking about their boyfriends and how many boys they got off with at the latest party. I scrunch up my nose. "No thanks, mum."

Although I may not know Sherlock personally, and despite the mystery surrounding his death, I know that someone was behind it. And I'll give you three guesses who.

_Moriarty._ The guy who was on trial just a few months beforeSherlock jumped off that roof. My friend who works at the local newspaper did a special article on that case – never in history has someone been able to break into the Tower of London _and _the Bank of England _at the same time_. And then he was acquitted! That really shocked me. Apparently, Sherlock even gave evidence against him, but that clearly wasn't enough to convict him. I'm sure he had something to do with the smearing of Sherlock's career. I think he did it deliberately, too. I think he had a personal vendetta against him – and John Watson agrees.

So that's usually what I publish nowadays. It used to be about how fantastic Sherlock was, and I would print snippets of John's blog. But now it's turned into a campaign to trash Moriarty's name, just like I'm sure he trashed Sherlock's.

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes_. I don't know how many times I've etched that message into the desks at college, on the lockers, even in the toilet cubicles. On occasion others have added other comments to it, but I've never discovered who they are.

Today, walking home from college, I stop at the top of my street and take in the view. Autumn leaves are littered everywhere, making pleasant rustling sounds in the chill October breeze. I take a deep breath, and try to block out the background chaos that is London traffic all trying to head home at once at the end of a busy day. I reach my front door, and I'm anticipating what I'll be eating for dinner later when I suddenly stop. I had gone to reach for my key, when I noticed I didn't need it. The door is ajar. I spin around searching for signs of mum's car, but it's nowhere to be found.

Now I'm nervous; I approach the entrance cautiously and peer around the door. The hall is deserted. Everything seems untouched, though – the umbrella stand is still in its corner, and the picture of mum and me at Blackpool when I was seven is still hanging in place.

I step back a bit, biting my lip. Maybe I should phone mum – or even the police. But then, isn't this what I've always wanted? Some excitement? Everyday life can be so monotonous; maybe I should take this chance to prove myself.

_Prove what? _my inner voice asks snidely, but I pay no attention. Creeping forwards, I gently push open the door and walk inside, my heart beating wildly. "H-hello?" I call out timidly.

I expect to hear crashes and to see burglars coming down the stairs with sacks of our things, but nothing reaches my ears. Except…

The _click _from the kettle. Someone's in the kitchen, making a cup of tea; the telltale chink of mugs, and the fridge opening and shutting. I frown. "Mum?" I walk a little more confidently towards the kitchen; burglars do not stop for a cuppa when robbing someone's house.

"Mum, is that—" I stop and gasp. That's not my mum. In front of me stands a man; a medium-built man with short dark hair, wearing an expensive looking suit.

Suddenly, he turns around. He holds two mugs in his hands, steam rising from each one. He smirks.

"Milk and one sugar alright?" he asks, a soft Irish lilt to his voice. His dark hazel eyes sparkle with malice.

_Moriarty_. I'd know him anywhere; from pictures of the trial that I've pored over in my room.

Suddenly, my brain kicks into overdrive and I turn to run back out the kitchen door but it slams shut. I tug on the handle but to no avail; someone is out there holding it closed. I try the back door, but that too is locked and the key is missing. _Why won't they open?_ my mind screams. _Don't you understand I have to get out! _I'm surprised that the adrenaline rush isn't making me super-strong or super-fast; clearly this invasion was pre-planned.

The devil himself just stands there, leaning against the kitchen counter.

"What's your rush?" he asks, mockingly polite. "You've only just got home I'd like to hear _all about your day_."

I stop dashing about and look at him. "Let me out," I say quietly. _Damn, that sounded so much more threatening in my head_.

"Now why would I do that? All I want is a little chat." He offers me the tea, but I ignore it.

"What do you want? Why are you here?"

"Now, these are questions we can discuss in there –" he motions through the closed door to where the living room is "—_if_ you accept your tea." The word _tea _sounds menacing; a threat. I frown at him, but slowly reach for the mug. I end up snatching it from him, spilling hot tea over my hands in the process. I wince, but he just chuckles. "After you."

I reach for the handle. It opens this time, and I pull the door slowly open before making an abrupt dash for it through the hall, towards the still-open front door –

_Slam_. A huge man has blocked my path, shutting the door in the process. I collide with his chest; tea flies everywhere and the mug tumbles to the ground. I fall backwards myself, and the ground hits my tailbone. I roll over on the floor in agony, stopping only when I see a pair of expensive shoes in my line of sight. _His _shoes.

"Now," he says, crouching down to my level, "we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Just to warn you, the hard way – although being a lot more fun for me – will be a lot more painful for you, and we wouldn't want that."

A large hand – _not _his – grasps my wrists and pulls me to my feet, before frog-marching me into the living room. I try to break free from his grip, but I've got no chance. I'm one of the most unfit people I know.

He plonks me down on the sofa and leaves the room (probably to stand guard). Moriarty has already settled himself into the squashy chair just to the left of me. He shifts slightly, smiling at me. "Well, this is comfy. Speaking of which, you don't look very comfortable over there. Sit back, relax. I'd say 'Drink your tea' but you seem to have spilt yours." It sounds like he's telling a joke; a joke with an incredibly evil punch line.

I suppress a shudder and look around the room, but I can still feel those eyes piercing me, like an x-ray.

"What do you want?" I ask again, deciding to fix my gaze on the picture above the mantelpiece. It's a copy of The Scream that my dad bought from the National Gallery once; funny how that now depicts how I feel.

"You," he replies, in an almost sultry tone.

My eyes widen and I turn to him, shocked. He laughs. "Oh, I get everyone with that. Makes people _look_. I do like people to pay attention when I talk to them." He sips from his mug, and then looks at it disapprovingly.

"I do rather hate using mugs, don't you? I would've preferred to use china, but when I took a peek in your cupboards, you didn't have any. Shame."

"My mum keeps it in our safe. Too valuable to use." I suddenly clamp a hand over my mouth.

_Why the _hell _are you giving him more information about yourself? Why not just give him the combination to the safe along with your mum's credit card details while you're at it!_

Moriarty's eyes widen in mock horror before he smiles again. "Dear me, giving away family secrets already? I haven't even done anything yet."

"I'll call the police," I say, reaching for my phone.

"No you won't."

"Oh yeah?" I retort bravely.

"Yes. Because then I'll call an ambulance. For you." My hand pauses halfway through bringing my phone out. "Although, by that time it might be too late even for the paramedics."

I swallow hard and then push my phone back into my pocket. Moriarty leans back more comfortably into his seat.

"I'm Jim, by the way," he says casually. "Jim Moriarty. Although, judging by _this_—" he pulls out a copy of the college magazine from inside his jacket "—you already know that, don't you?"

On the front cover is a photo of him being led away by the police. "I… I—" _How on Earth did he get a copy of that? And why would he want one anyway?_

"Clearly not a fan, judging by some of the things you've said in here over the past few months," he adds, riffling through the pages.

"Yeah, well… Sherlock was twice the man you are!" My eyes widen at the outburst. I quickly shut my mouth and tense up even more.

Moriarty looks at me with what appears to be genuine surprise. "So the little mouse is coming out of her hole at last. I'm impressed." He sips some more tea. "Now then, seriously, I did actually come for you. Because you're going to help me."

"What? No, I'm not."

"Ah, yes, you are, Rosie Jones. You really don't want to force my hand here." Moriarty gestures nonchalantly at the door, where the huge man from before gently flexed his muscles. _He looks like a rugby player. Yep, definitely a rugby player._

That shuts me up. Moriarty chuckles again.

"But why me?" My voice comes out in a panicky whine. _Pathetic_.

"Because, my dear Rosie, using you to help me is going to be so much more entertaining to watch than just getting one of my snipers to do it. Besides, you're a big girl. Eighteen, now? And then there's the fact that you _hate my guts_." He leans forward menacingly, and in return I retreat back as far as I can. "Hmm. This should be much more fun ."

"Fun?" I frown.

"Yes. Fun. I'm bored, you see, Rosie, so very bored. And making you help me, almost certainly against your will, is amusing –and distracting, at least for a little while. Now, are you going to be a good girl and help me? Please?" His voice goes a little high pitched towards the end, as if he genuinely wanted my help.

"Wh—why should I?" I stammer slightly.

"Because – besides the obvious stuff that I've threatened you with – Sherlock Holmes will _die _if you don't help me."

My eyebrows shoot up.

Moriarty chuckles darkly. "Oh yes. Did I forget to mention? Sherlock Holmes is still alive. Clever little stunt he pulled up on the roof – although, I have to say, I thought my own performance was _stunning_." He inspects his nails, although they're so short there's not that much to inspect.

"I knew it!" I cry, my voice becoming passionate again. "I _knew _you had something to do with it! But," I add, quieter now, "how do I know you're not lying to me?"

"What, that Sherlock's alive? You don't." He reaches for an apple from the fruit bowl on the table and bites into it, still watching my every move. "Now, Rosie Jones, what's it going to be? Are you going to help me? Or is Sherlock, your hero, going to stare into the face of hell for real this time?"

**A/N: Ta-da! It was going to be a one-shot but WHOOPS SILLY ME I'M DEVELOPING A BIGGER PLOT. Ah well. Reviews appreciated – especially ones that comment on Moriarty's characterisation, pleeeeeeeeeeease? He's fun to write, but have I got the right voice? Thanks in advance :D**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Shaking, my hands gripped my mug of tea as I sat on the sofa, my eyes glazed over. Moriarty was gone. But I had been informed that there would always be someone to keep an eye on me.

"No one likes a tell-tale tit, Rosie Jones. Especially me. Now you be a good girl and do what I tell you."

I had given in. _Stupid, stupid! _I kept telling myself, over and over. I had signed myself over to a man who was pure evil, in order to preserve the life of another man whom I admire but who hasn't got the slightest clue that I exist. I keep telling myself that if I had that moment back again, had that same conversation with Moriarty, that I wouldn't have done it. I would have told him "NO, you can stick your job and your rugby-playing bodyguard, I don't want it. I won't betray Sherlock, not ever!" I sigh. But I know in my heart that that's not how it would've gone. I would do exactly the same thing. Give in.

Before you judge me and scoff at me, you don't know what it was like. The menace that surrounded him, his voice – the imprint of him is still lingering in the room now, like when you stare at a light bulb and that little patch of blue-yellow light obscures your vision afterwards. I shudder, and stare at the tea that's started to cool, before putting it aside. Tea just reminds me of _him_.

I get up and head to the kitchen, still not fully aware of my surroundings. Mum's not back yet; she left a message to say she wouldn't be back until late. Some sort of diversion on one of the main roads, although she drove past the blockage and there seems to be no sign of an accident. I heard her over the answer-machine when I was too stunned to pick up the phone just after Moriarty left.

In the kitchen, I glance around. Nothing out of place. Moriarty was even nice enough to replace the sugar bowl and the teabag box back on the shelf above the kettle. _Hmm. "Nice". Not sure he's even ever heard of that word._ I decide to stare into the fridge – maybe eating junk will help – but when I turn towards it, I stop. Held to the fridge by a magnet, a note written in black, neat writing that says,

_See you soon. –M_

Ironically, the magnet holding it there was something I brought back from a holiday years ago as a souvenir – "_Sorry – I can't hear you over the sound of how AWESOME I am." _It's not funny anymore.

That note does it for me. I crumple on the floor, tears rolling down my cheeks as what I've done fully hits me. I've sold my soul to the Devil. And I won't ever be getting it back. _"No one ever leaves." _That's what he said. I rock backwards and forwards, hugging my knees. _How did it come to this?_ I cry silently. _I was a regular teenager, headed for university – why did it have to be me? I live in an average house. I have friends, I go out, I walk in the park, I read books – how does something like this happen to someone like me?_

But the kitchen holds no answers. The fridge hums its metallic hum, and I can hear birds chirping about the garden, arguing over whose turn it is next to use the birdbath in the fading sunlight.

I sit there until the tears dry out, and then I sit there some more. It's not until the phone rings and I jump out of my skin that I make any move at all. By then, it's dark outside. I quickly pull the blinds down in the kitchen and make my way into the study where the phone is.

"Hello? Oh, hi, mum. Yeah, I'm okay. No, really, I'm fine. I haven't been crying, I just think I've got a cold coming on. Yeah, school's been pretty stressful. Okay, I'll see you later. Bye."

I put the phone down and sink into the desk chair beside it. I can't tell my mum. Firstly, she wouldn't believe me; secondly, Moriarty would do something pretty horrible. To who, I don't know. It could be me, my mum, or even Sherlock.

Suddenly, I feel a buzz in my pocket. I pull out my mobile phone, and notice there's a little envelope sign on the screen. I frown. Not many people text me, and it can't be my mum as she's just rang me. My phone says _Unknown number_. I frown deeper and open the text. And then nearly drop the phone.

_Nice lying. I could really use someone like you. And don't cry. I'll be coming to collect soon. – M _

"How the hell did you get my number?" I shout at the ceiling. Then something hits me; he's bugged the phone line. So what else has he done? Put cameras in my bedroom? I scrunch up my nose in disgust.

I feel like I should reply. How about "_Get lost"_? Too childish? Or what about _"Leave me alone. Pick on someone your own size!" Gah! _I decide not to reply. Probably safer. Although I should probably get a new phone. Or at least a new SIM.

I run my hand through my hair and muss it up a bit. Then I decide to check on Dr Watson's blog. Maybe he's got some answers. Opening up the laptop, I locate the blog via the toolbar with my favourites on it. Hey, don't judge me!

I scroll down. Nothing new. I sigh. It seems that Sherlock's determined to keep his resurrection under wraps, although he hasn't managed to dodge Moriarty's radar. Unless, of course, Moriarty's lied to me just to get me to do what he wants. This is probably more likely.

Everything is so messed up! I want to scream at the world about how unfair everything is, but instead I retreat to my bed. Sleep eludes me for a fair while, but when it finally creeps up on me, my mental engine has exhausted itself and leaves nothing to dream about.

…

I wake up the next morning. Sunlight streams through the windows and the birds are already at it. I roll over. It's a Saturday. I'm sure there's something I'm missing, something big and horrible that happened to me yesterday, but I can't – oh yeah. But it was a dream, surely! Nevertheless, I have to check.

I run down the stairs as quickly as is possible without slipping, taking the last three stairs at a leap before legging it into the hall and nearly skidding on the tiled kitchen floor. _The fridge, please don't be _– I feel my stomach simultaneously drop and attempt to make an appearance in my throat. I stare in dismay at that neat note, the evidence that what happened to me yesterday wasn't a nightmare. Although, you could say that it was. A living nightmare.

After staring for a little while, I begin to make breakfast, but resolve to do something about my predicament. Okay, not a lot I can do, but there's got to be something!

Slowly chewing over my bowl of cornflakes, I absentmindedly switch TV channels until I land on the news. I'm about to change again when something catches my ears, and I turn up the volume.

"… three disappearances in the last week have led police to believe that these are not separate incidences, and that they are, in fact, linked. How so, no one is certain, but Scotland Yard are certainly taking these missing teens very seriously."

Suddenly, a man appears on the screen that I recognise. The name on the bar beneath says he's _DI Greg Lestrade, Scotland Yard_.

"Of course, we're doing everything we can to find these missing persons," he says. "It's very tragic when someone goes missing, but even more so when it's a young person. We have a few theories so far, and we're working hard to find leads. If anyone has any information that may be of use to us as to the young persons' whereabouts, we'd be very grateful."

The news reporter then moves on to some new topic about the birth of some rare white tigers at London Zoo, and I switch off.

I guess I shouldn't be too fazed by the disappearance of teenagers; I mean, it happens all the time. But something about this story just doesn't seem right…

By the time I've dressed and washed, I've made up my mind about what I'm going to do. Visit the place where it all started, of course! Mum's out again, so I leave a text on her phone to say where I've gone (I doubt Moriarty would bother hacking into _her _phone – she barely uses it) and then grab my coat and head towards the nearest tube. Every so often I glance over my shoulder, but I don't see anyone suspicious. It's a Saturday, and the streets are incredibly crowded, as well as the tubes. There's a good chance I'll lose whoever's tailing me in this melee, but just to make sure, I get a tube to Euston, then Victoria, and _then _I head to Baker Street.

Baker Street. My heart thumps nervously as to what I'll find. Sherlock? No, it's almost too much to hope. Besides, it's the most likely place Moriarty (or anyone) would look for him. I walk slowly down the street (it's taking me all the strength in my body not to leg it down there, batter down the door and run inside), gazing into a few shop windows, very nearly walking into Gregg's to purchase a donut (What? I'm hungry), but eventually, I get there. I gaze up at the polished-black door, with its brass knocker. I swallow hard, and then, with one last glance over my shoulder, I knock on the door.

I wait. My heart feels ready to burst out of my chest, and I feel sick. After a few minutes, I feel daft. It was stupid coming here. Moriarty's bound to know, then I'll be in trouble and…

Gently, ever so gently, the door creaks open a little. Just a fraction. Enough to get my attention, anyway. Butterflies flood into my stomach once more, and I nearly double over. My eyes light up in excitement. "Sherlock?" I whisper, but no one replies. I look around once more, before pushing open the door and stepping inside.

Wiping my feet, I shut the door behind me. No one's there in the hall, but there's a coat hanging on the hook. Just one coat. I'd know that coat anywhere. Long, and blue, with a collar that's usually turned up at the throat…

Unable to contain my excitement, I bound up the stairs. All fear has gone, I'm just desperate to see him, to get some answers…

I race into the flat, and then stop dead. The room is empty, but that doesn't stop the door slamming shut behind me. The fear returns, and I freeze. In the quiet (apart from my ragged breathing – told you I was unfit), I hear the tinkle of china, and that sound is enough to send a chill through my whole body.

"You've disappointed me, Rosie Jones," says that voice with the Irish lilt. I start to shake. He sounds genuinely disappointed, too. "I thought you were cleverer than this. Coming here? Tut tut, that won't do. Although, I have to congratulate you on giving my man a bit of a run around London – Euston, Victoria…"

"What do you want?" I whisper. All the fight has left me now.

"Want? No, I don't _want_ anything from you. It's rather something I _need _from you. And sadly, you've proven to me that you can't be trusted. Unfortunate, really – no, I'm just going to have to take you along with the others. They showed promise too, but disappointed me. A bit like you really."

"The others?"

Moriarty stands up from his chair. His back is to me, and I see that he's still as smartly dressed as the last time. He turns, and he's got that small smirk playing on his lips.

"Oh, you'll see them soon enough. Goodnight, Rosie Jones." He gives a little wave to me as I stand there and frown, and it's too late to notice the bag descending over my head and the smell of chloroform…

**A/N: Ta-dah! Sorry about the wait, writer's block and all. Gone now! Review, please?**

**P.S. Right, now I'm going to do something I've never done before, and I'm not sure how it's going to work out, but I would like to give you the opportunity to BE IN THIS STORY! Exciting, right? Anyways, I wrote this to imagine what it would be like if Moriarty waltzed into my life and turned it upside down. So, I need fellow writers to PM me with characters who, like Rosie, have been protesting Sherlock's innocence and trampling Moriarty's name into the mud where it belongs! Tell me (briefly) name, age, first contact with Moriarty, and how you ended up being blacked out and taken… The ones I like best will be included, and I will let you know if you are one of the lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you look at it :P) few.**

**Thanks in advance!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**A/N: Je suis desol****ée****! Long wait again, I know – and the sad thing is, I've had all the time in the world to be doing this, and I haven't… (Procrastinating my hobby? What have I come to?) Anyways, here is chapter 3 – please enjoy!**

It's cold. Really cold. And dark. I'm dreaming. I know I am. I've been dreaming this particular dream for a while. I don't move; I just sit, or lie here – can't tell which – whilst I hear silence. And feel cold. And see nothing. It's not a very pleasant dream.

I shift my position. And the pain tells me this is no dream. A sharp stabbing spirals through my whole body from my hip, and tears spring to my eyes. _I'm not at home._

"Mum?" I call out softly. "Mum, where are you?" Tears run down my face. She's not here. She's not coming to my rescue. My voice is croaky; my throat is parched. _When was the last time I drank?_ Then memories shoot through my head: the tube, Greggs, Baker Street, black shiny door, blue coat, Moriarty…

_Moriarty_.

"Help!" I cry, though my voice is still feeble. I fight to make more noise, but the pain is almost unbearable. "Help! Someone please help me! Is anyone there?"

At first, there's silence. My head droops in despair: no one's coming for me. I'm in total blackness; the kind of solid black that makes you feel as though you're sitting in a box. Suddenly, footsteps. My head shoots up as a key turns in a door somewhere ahead of me. It creaks open on rusty hinges, and a powerful light shines into the room. I shield my eyes as a figure steps forward. It's a big person; I'm almost relieved as I realise it's not Moriarty. It steps towards me and I try to shy away, but I'm sitting against a wall and there's nowhere for me to go. _Crap_.

The figure crouches down and focuses his torch beam on me. I squeeze my eyes shut, just as I realise it's rugby-playing bodyguard (I have yet to come up with a better name). Then there's a sound, like white noise from a TV, and the torch-wielding villain speaks. "Boss, she's awake." The white noise sound returns and I hear nothing at first, but then – it must be my imagination – _the chink of a china teacup?_

I open my eyes to see Torch-wielder looking at me. I'm gradually growing accustomed to the light, and I glance around a bit. It's not a big room; it looks fairly modern, being made out of what looks like breeze blocks – like a warehouse storage facility.

"Where does it hurt?" The voice is gruff. I'm startled; firstly that the moron can actually speak, and secondly, I'm just a _little_ taken aback by the question.

"What?" I croak.

"You heard me the first time. Answer."

"Oh." _I guess I had better answer him, then. He's holding a blunt instrument. Could get nasty._ "My hip."

He sighs. "Which one?"

I point to my left.

Once again, out of the blue, he reaches down and places an arm underneath my left shoulder and hauls me up into a standing position – but not without me suffering the consequences. I howl in pain – actually howl – and fresh tears erupt. My legs nearly buckle beneath me, due to lack of energy and the fact that I probably haven't moved since I got here. Sniffling and embarrassed, he gets me to hobble painfully – so painfully – towards the door. There's no chance of me making a run for it; I wouldn't last two seconds. We come out into a large corridor, with dim flickering lights. Boxes are stacked in piles all over the place – yep, definitely a factory-warehouse-y thing of some sort. Through some double doors, and we come to a staircase. Through my tears, I have to speak.

"There is no way I can climb that."

Without saying a word, Torch-wielder swings my legs up and carries me like a child up the block staircase. Pain! I bite my tongue and hold my breath in an effort to not cry, or scream, or shout abuse. _Again, was not expecting this_. Emboldened by my last little speech, I try another question. "Where am I?"

No response. Nada. _Okay, _this_ I was expecting._

More double doors at the top of the stairs and I'm being carried into a huge room – an empty factory floor. Abandoned machinery stares at me as I pass, and I stare back. It's all just a bit creepy… Pain still stabs me as we cross the floor, and it's only Torch-wielder's footsteps that I can hear _slap-slapping_, echoing around the room. If I was in any way sassy, brave, or even stupid (well, more stupid than I already am) I would ask what his name is, but as I am none of those things, I keep quiet. And then…

"Ah, here she is, Rosie Jones. The girl who didn't do as she was told. And look where that's got you."

I turn to face him. Once again, suited up, and standing alone in the middle of the factory floor, smirking.

"What's the matter? Not talking?" I don't say anything. "Put her down."

"Wai—oww! Ow!" My legs don't sustain my weight and I drop to the floor.

"There we go! So she can talk! Get her a chair." Torch-wielder leaves. _No, don't go! _screams my internal voice, but too late. Moriarty's lapdog has gone. Now it's just me and him.

"So, Rosie, how do you like my little set up here?" Moriarty smiles and gestures to the room. "Pretty impressive, huh?" When I say nothing, he rolls his eyes and sighs. "Look, now you're just being boring. Enjoy it, did you, down there in the dark? I can put you back there, you know."

The memory of how awful it was down there hits me and causes tears to well in my eyes again. "Don't," I whisper.

As Moriarty walks towards me, I hear footsteps from behind and the scraping of wood against the floor as Torch-wielder sets down a chair. He walks around to me and hauls me up onto it, and it takes all of my will power not to shout out. I think about trying to make a dash for it, but I know I have neither the energy nor the strength to even stand up unaided. Torch-wielder brings rope around and I start to panic but Moriarty waves it away as if it were a fabric or a plate of food he disliked.

"That won't be necessary; Rosie Jones isn't going anywhere, is she?" He looks at me and I look away. Moriarty chuckles. "There's someone I'd like you to meet. Bring her." From behind some machinery another lackey drags on another chair with yet another person attached to it. This one's tied up though; I guess she poses more of a threat than I do.

When we're face to face, only a few feet apart, Moriarty introduces us. "Rosie Jones, meet Eleanor Wilcox, Eleanor Wilcox, meet Rosie Jones. If you're not going to talk to me, maybe you'll talk to each other. Go on; tell Rosie why you're here, Eleanor. Or maybe Rosie would like to go first…?"

I felt as though Eleanor and I had a sort of telepathic communication; either that or we mutually and non-verbally agreed to say nothing.

Moriarty gives an exasperated sigh. "Well, if you're not going to talk, then maybe I should just leave the two of you here? We'll get the others in soon enough; then we can all have a proper chat. See you two around. Oh, and if you get any ideas…" Moriarty gestures upwards to the rafters, and looking up I can see one or two figures crouched on the beams. On the floor, I see two little red dots circling the area where we sit. I don't need to play Modern Warfare to know what those are…

"See you later." Moriarty, Torch-wielder and the other guy leave, Moriarty with his hands in his pockets.

Once I'm sure they've gone, I look up at Eleanor. She's still staring down at the floor.

"Hi." I almost whisper it, afraid that she'll bite my head off. A long period of silence follows and I don't try to break it. Instead, I let my mind wonder away from the pain (difficult, but doable) and try to avoid topics like home, mum, and, and… Tears roll unchecked down my tears, until I can't withhold a sniff any longer. When I give in, Eleanor looks up. Her face softens when she sees me, although there's no way she can play down the black eye that's spread over one side of her face.

"Hey," she says softly. "You okay?"

I can't help but smile. "Stupidest question of the century or what?" Luckily, she realises I'm joking and smiles back.

"Yeah, I guess it was kind of silly." She looks around, sighs and then frowns. "Sherlock, huh?"

I nod; I'm not even surprised that she knows. It's the same reason she's here, too. "Yep. I was running the college newspaper; Moriarty got hold of a few copies, I went running to Baker Street for answers and, here I am." I spread my arms out. "What about you?"

"Similar tale… Me and a group of friends led a sort of resistance campaign around the uni – posters and the like, the occasional graffiti… We also ran a blog that generated a fair bit of hype, called _SaveHat_—"

"_Man_!" I finish. "That was you? Your blog is _amazing_! If only it were different circumstances…"

Eleanor laughs. "Yeah… Well anyway, one night I was up late in one of the computer rooms, and Moriarty shows up. Threatens me, et cetera, and at first I gave him a lot of backchat… until he brought my family into it. Turns out one of our neighbours works for him… So I told him I would help him, thinking I could use things to my advantage – I kept all of the notes he sent, records of texts and conversations we had – only a few, to make sure I kept in line – and then I did something a little stupid and tried to organise a meeting with my friends…"

"…and now you're here," I sigh.

"Mhmm. And none the wiser about why."

A bit more silence. Suddenly, I remember – "Did you know Sherlock's still alive?"

Eleanor nods sadly. "I wouldn't get your hopes up though, Rosie. Likelihood is Moriarty only told us that to get us interested, as a threat, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. Would be cool if he were still around, though. He would certainly be able to get us out of this mess."

"Yep."

The next few hours we spend talking about Dr Watson's blog, and speculating about Sherlock and why we're here. We still haven't worked things out when Torch-wielder comes back with two glasses of water. I look up and see that the light has faded behind the windows. It's almost too dark to make out Eleanor's facial features anymore; her black eye has merged with the rest of her. The water tastes funny but I drink it anyway. It's then that it hits me how hungry I am, and my stomach grumbles. Loudly. Despite the circumstances, both Eleanor and I burst out laughing.

"This isn't supposed to be funny you know." Moriarty, a silhouette in the background steps forward, his voice echoing all over the room. "You're both here for a very serious reason, as are others."

"You mean, we're not the only ones?" I can't believe Eleanor just asked him that. What happened to our mutual, non-verbal agreement of silence?

Moriarty chuckles. "No no no no no, my dear, definitely not. You think you're the only two teens in the world campaigning for your precious Sherlock? Of course there are others. And you'll meet them all, soon enough. But, I think that's enough chit chat for tonight, and besides," he adds, making a big show of stretching and yawing, "I'm ready for bed, I don't know about you…"

I suddenly realise what he means and before I can stop him, Torch-wielder has me in his arms and is taking me away from Eleanor and Moriarty across the floor, back towards the double doors, and back to that dark, cold room…

"Goodnight, Rosie Jones!"

His mocking voice still echoes down the staircase, through the corridor and bounces around the room where I am unceremoniously placed right where I woke up. Just as Torch-wielder leaves the room, I make a final plea. "Please, leave me a light of sorts… a torch, anything, I'll be quiet, I swear…"

The door shuts, and I'm alone. Once again, I break down into tears, all my fears crowding in on me like paparazzi, wanting my attention, pushing and pulling me… I doze into a fitful sleep, only knowing that I've slept when I wake from a nightmare, but at some point in the night, I wake and see a small shaft of light. I remember crawling over to investigate, each drag of my body causing more tears, but I reach it and find that someone's left me a torch…

"Thank you," I whisper to the door, before dozing off again into another nightmare, in which I'm at a tea party, and when the Mad Hatter turns round, it's Moriarty…

**A/N: Another chapter down! What did you think? Review please, and you get free cookies and a hug… I'm in my first week at uni and I'm homesick, so I need all the hugs I can get! If anyone else wants to submit characters it's not too late, I need more for later chapters, they can be boy or girl, see Chapter 2 for more info :D Many thanks to ****Olivia von Dread**** for submitting Eleanor Wilcox, the sassy uni girl! Until next time… :D**


	4. Author's Note and Apology

*takes deep breath*

…Hi. I KNOW it's been a while, and for that, I apologise. Unfortunately, I have some bad news.

I'm off to America for 3 months, which means no updates. I also haven't had time to plan ahead for this story (I'm trying to round off two others!) so, here's what I am suggesting.

Before I go, I would like to assign this story to someone else. You can take it wherever you want; I will take it down from my site, email you the current documents, and you can do whatever!

If I get more than one offer to take this story on, then I will look at individual profiles and judge based on that. Otherwise, free to a good home! All I ask is that I be given a *little* credit somewhere (e.g. original idea by milkshakebubblebath, something like that…)

The alternative option is that you all wait three months during which I might have some ideas as to where to take this, but I will totally understand if you are fed up with waiting.

Thank you all so much for your patience and kind reviews, and I hope that whoever takes this on gets as much positive feedback as I have. Also, be sure to send me the link so I can have a gander at where you've taken it!

Much love,

Becca x


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